by Homer Hickam
In the observation rotunda atop the nearest tower, Crater could see Moontown tubewives, tubehusbands, and their children waving as the victorious troops came home. Then Crater spotted Q-Bess, the woman who had adopted him fifteen years ago when he’d been orphaned a second time, his adoptive parents killed on the scrapes when he was four. When she saw him, she waved. Her wave was, of course, a regal one since Q-Bess claimed she was the rightful Queen of the British Isles and associated islands. For all anyone knew, she might have been exactly that, not that it mattered much in Moontown. There, she was just another refugee from Earth.
The grimy Medaris Irregulars piled off the trucks and headed for the dustlocks. The biolastic sheaths were wonders of biological science that allowed people to stay outside for days, but they were not entirely self-cleansing. A fellow could get a little smelly inside one when he was hard at work on the scrapes or tracking down and fighting crowhoppers. As anxious as the Irregulars were to climb in the dustlock showers, they waited respectfully for the dead to be carried inside first. The Irregulars saluted, all but London Bob, who held his splinted arm.
Crater and Asteroid Al stood back. “Let everybody else go inside,” Crater said. He nodded at the little crowhopper they’d shoved into the dust. “We’re going to have to get this thing out of its body armor. No use having a bunch of gawkers around.”
“We can’t take it inside,” Asteroid Al said. “For scrag’s sake, just let it loose and be done with it.”
“He’s right,” the crowhopper said in a raspy voice. It struggled to its knees and held up its hands, tied together with mine wire. “I have no food, no water, nothing to survive with. Let me go and be done with me.”
Crater and Al exchanged surprised glances. “I thought your communicator had stopped working,” Crater said.
“I had nothing to say and even if I had, no one intelligent to say it to.”
“The first thing I’m going to do after we get your helmet off,” Crater said, “is strap some duct tape across your mouth.”
“Take my helmet off now,” it said, “and you won’t have to. I will be dead. That should amuse your troops.”
“That was a bunch of newbies. I regret they tortured you.”
“Making me a captive is worse than any torture.”
“Let this thing go, Crater,” Al pleaded.
“Maybe it can be studied or something,” Crater said.
“You are the stubbornest fellow I’ve ever known,” Al said. “But all right, I’ll help get your creature inside. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Thank you,” Crater said. “You’re a friend.”
Al laughed. “After Moontowners get a look at this thing, I’m likely to be your only friend.”
When the dustlock was clear, Crater pulled open the hatch and climbed inside. After a brief struggle, Al pushed the little crowhopper through the hatch far enough that Crater could get a grip on its armor and haul it the rest of the way in. When Al climbed in behind it and pulled the hatch shut, Crater said, “Moontown standard,” and the first chamber of the dustlock, which was technically an airlock, responded with a hiss of air.
The next chamber was a true dustlock where helmets, coveralls, biolastic sheaths, and waste-disposal plaston girdles were removed. A dustlock technician, called a dustie, appeared. He stopped in his tracks when he saw what Crater and Al had with them. “Why is that thing alive?” he asked.
“Crater thought it was too little to kill,” Al said with a grin.
“I didn’t know there was a size limit,” the dustie said, scratching up under his cap before handing Crater the wand that provided the electricity that caused their biolastic sheaths to unroll. Crater applied it to his neck, then pulled his helmet off, happy to be free of it. Al took the wand and, when the biolastic material parted, pushed his helmet up and off and breathed in fresh, clean Moontown artificial air.
His knee on its chest to pin it down, Crater pulled back the armor from the crowhopper’s neck. “Looks like pretty much the same rig as ours,” he said and applied the wand to the base of its helmet. The biolastic material unraveled and Crater lifted the helmet off. A musty smell filled his nostrils as he got his first look at the creature’s face. It had the pug nose, narrow eyes, flat lips, high cheekbones, and coarse hair peculiar to crowhoppers, although its features seemed somehow softer.
“Ugly thing,” the dustie said.
“They weren’t bred for looks,” Al remembered.
“In that case, they succeeded,” the dustie said, wrinkling up his nose. “And it stinks too. Get your suits and sheaths off, then we’ll tackle this thing together.”
The dustie handed filter masks to Crater and Asteroid Al and clamped one over the mouth and nose of the crowhopper. Removal of suits after being outside meant dust was going to get spread around. Although there were powerful suction fans, there was still a chance the dust would get breathed in. Moon dust wasn’t like Earth dust. It was more like powdered glass.
Crater and Al pulled off their coveralls and boots, deposited them into a laundry bag, then peeled off their biolastic sheaths and plaston girdles. Normally, they would have walked naked into the next dustlock where the water showers were located, but to get the crowhopper out of its suit, they put on clean coveralls, provided by the dustie.
While Al held it down, Crater pulled off its boots. There were armored greaves on its legs and arms and Crater removed them, then figured out the zippers and latches holding the armored upper torso. He untied the mine wire from around its wrists and began to pull the armor away. The crowhopper silently struggled, but Crater and Al worked diligently until they had the black upper torso and pants off.
Underneath was a plaston girdle and an opaque biolastic sheath. Crater unlatched the girdle and handed it to the dustie, who treated it like toxic waste, depositing it in a blue tub and sealing it. Then Crater rolled the crowhopper over on its stomach and used the wand to open up the back of its sheath. He peeled the sheath off, slicing it along the legs and arms and pulling it away in pieces, all of which went into another blue tub. When they rolled the creature over, they saw it had legs thick as mooncrete posts and heavy, muscular arms, slick with sweat. There was also something else they noticed. Crater looked away while Al laughed. “At least now we know why you didn’t kill it, Crater.”
“That thing is a girl!” the dustie cried. “And the ugliest girl in the history of the universe.”
“Cover it with something,” Crater snapped.
“It needs a shower,” the dustie said, after draping it with a blanket. He thought for a moment, then said, “Let call in some other dusties, female ones. This is going to be tricky.”
Crater was grateful beyond words but managed two. “Thank you.”
“There’s another alternative,” the dustie said. “We can haul it into the airlock and depressurize. It wouldn’t feel much pain.”
Crater glanced into the airlock. He could feel the words forming on his lips. Do it.
::: NINE
She did not fight the humans because they were going to do what she wanted them to do. They were going to suffocate her and then she would fly to the promised nothingness where her brothers waited for her, their voices raised in greeting: Life is death! Death is life!
She felt the strength of the Legion fill her as she was carried to the airlock and oblivion, the righteous fate of every Legionnaire.
Her name was Crescent Claudine Besette, her name selected by the Trainers for its grandeur and nothing to do with her ancestors, who did not exist. To be part of the Legion Internationale, Crescent had hiked across the tundra through a blizzard, climbed a sheer-sided mountain in a lightning storm, swam across a three-mile lake littered with ice floes, and run across a frigid desert carrying an eighty-pound pack. She was well trained on nearly every pistol and rifle in the world’s arsenal, and knew how to improvise bombs out of junk and house-hold chemicals. She knew how throw a knife, sling a sling, shoot a bow and arrow, set a variety of booby traps, and choke
until dead an enemy with her bare hands. She was fluent in Siberian, Russian, Mandarin 1.0 and 2.0, English, French, Hebrew, Calimexican, Greek, Español, and Latin, and knowledgeable of other dialects. She could quote from the works of Aristotle, Socrates, Shakespeare, Twain, Tolstoy, Steinbeck, and other writers and philosophers. She had absorbed the poetry of the masters and learned to appreciate the music of the classical composers. She had listened diligently to the Trainers and studied everything they gave her to learn. The proudest day of her life was when she was formally inducted into the Legion. On that day, she carried the guidon flag of her new century, a band of brothers and one sister, a fighting force without equal anywhere in the world. They were known as the Phoenix Century, their symbol, an eagle surrounded by flames, emblazoned on their armor and on a pendant they wore around their necks.
Crescent had no mother, no father, and no sisters although she had thousands of brothers. Legionnaires were a product, no more or less than soap or fertilizer, created for customers who required warriors to fight their battles. Crescent was intent on being as good a Legionnaire as any of her brothers. She had scored high marks on everything except survival swimming and that was only because she was afraid of fish.
When the word came down that the Phoenix Century was under contract, they gathered on the cold, windswept parade ground of Legion Training Camp #3 to be addressed by Tribune Henri Victor DuBois, the highest ranking Legionnaire in the force. He stood before them in his heavy black armor while Crescent and her century shivered in their light tunics.
“Hear me,” he said. “You have been leased by the Unified Countries of the World. Under this contract, five centuries of your brothers have already been deployed to the moon. You are the sixth century. You will gather here on the morrow to begin your transport to the lunar surface. I am confident you will fight with all the skill you have been taught by the Trainers, and with steadfast devotion for the Legion and for the details of our contract. Go to your quarters and prepare your gear. When you reach the battlefield, fight and die well. That is all.”
The chant rose from the century and Crescent had joined in until her voice was raw. “Life is death! Death is life!”
It was the second proudest moment in her life even though she, like her brothers, knew the other five centuries sent to the moon under the UCW contract had been killed to the last man. It was therefore no surprise that when they landed on the Sea of Serenity, the Russians turned their arrival into a blood sport. Eventually, they ran from the battlefield in stolen trucks and jumpcars until the survivors, whittled down to twelve, finally holed up in a camp a hundred miles from the Alpine Valley. When their leader, a centurion named Artur Velos Trabonnet, noticed a convoy passing nearby, he told them to prepare for battle. Other than don their pressure suits and their armor, there was little to do except to chant the pre-battle chant of the Legion:
Where does our spirit go after we die?
It goes to glory.
Where does the spirit of our enemy go after we kill them?
To a place of darkness.
When will we die?
When we so choose.
When will our enemy die?
When we kill them.
What is our secret?
Life is death! Death is life!
As they were climbing through the hatch into the dust, Trabonnet barred Crescent’s way. “You will stay here,” he said.
“Why will I stay?” Crescent demanded. “I can fight as well as any Legionnaire.”
“You will stay because I command you to stay.”
“And what is the logic behind this command?”
Trabonnet did a strange thing. Legionnaire officers did not touch enlisted men, but he placed his hand on her shoulder. “There is no logic. It comes from me wanting you to live.”
“But if I die and you die, we will meet in glory.”
He smiled, or struggled to arrange his facial features into the grimace that Legionnaires used as a smile, and said, “Live, Crescent. If the humans come, and come they will, live. Return to the Earth and breathe the clear air of the Steppes and feast your eyes on the land beneath the mountains and swim the cold, clear lakes of our youth.”
“I am afraid of fish,” she said.
His grimace broadened. “I am sorry. I forgot. But do the other things.”
“But death is life. We above all others must believe this.”
“Perhaps, but not today. Not for you. Give me your rifle. If you are armed, they will kill you. You must surrender and bow your head before them. I know this is a hard thing, but it is necessary if you are to live. I do not know how you will make it back to Earth, but I trust your training to get you through. Do not go to the Legion. Just live out your days in peace.” He noticed something. “You’ve lost your pendant.”
She touched her neck. “I’m sorry. The chain broke.”
He took the pendant from around his neck. “Take mine. Wear it in memory of me.”
After he’d gone, she looked at the pendant—an eagle wreathed in flames—then put its chain over her head and sat down and waited. Unlike Trabonnet, she believed the humans would kill her whether she had a rifle or not. But the young human named Crater had not killed her but instead made her a captive. Outside the lavatube, she saw that Trabonnet was also alive, though badly wounded, sitting against the fin of their stolen jumpcar. By killing himself and tossing her a knife, he had done what he could to set her free. But then she had been trucked across the moon, tortured by the humans, and disgraced in one of their dustlocks. Finally, she was promised death, for which she was ready.
They laid her naked on the cold lunasteel deck where she waited eagerly for the air to be drained away. Instead, the hatch opened and four women came inside carrying a water hose. “Let her rip!” one of them yelled, and a spout of cold water struck Crescent like a battering ram. She rolled and cried out, trying to get away, but the water pressure was too strong. Finally, the water stopped and the women fell on her with mops and sponges until she felt as if she’d been rubbed raw. Afterward, they wrapped her in towels. “Put these on,” one of the women said and handed her a gray tunic, black leggings, and black boots. “If you don’t, we’ll put them on for you.”
Trembling with shame, Crescent complied. After she dressed, one of the women brought her the pendant they’d taken. “Here,” she said gruffly. “We’re not thieves.”
Crescent placed the chain and the symbol of her century around her neck, then looked at it, remembering Trabonnet as he’d asked, before dropping it beneath the neck of her tunic.
The women tied her hands and put a wire around her ankles and pushed her out of the chamber into another one where her captor, Crater, sat on a bench. If she read his features right, human expressions being difficult for her, he was unhappy.
“What are you going to do with me?” she demanded. “Torture? Death? Or are you going to put me on display like an animal in a zoo?”
The answer he gave was not helpful. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I suppose you’re my prisoner of war. If you’re smart, you’ll make the best of it. We’re going into the main tubeway. You can be carried, in which case you may be dropped and hurt, or you can cooperate and walk with dignity.”
Crescent looked down at the wire between her ankles. “The wire the females tied on me is too short.”
“That is so you can’t run.”
“I believe your promise of dignity was a bit exaggerated.”
Crater raised his eyebrows. “You have a sense of humor!”
“Of course I do. For instance, it will amuse me when I kill you.”
Crater’s grin faded and the other human, the one called Asteroid Al, laughed. “She’s pretty saucy!”
“If she stays saucy,” Crater said, “I’ll cover her mouth with duct tape.”
“You will not do that,” Crescent said.
“Why not?”
“Because you do not have brains enough to operate a roll of duct tape.”
Al laughed again. Crater stood up, roughly clutched her shoulder, and pushed her toward a hatch. “Let’s go.”
Crescent sat on the rim of the hatch, swung her boots through, then stood in a large cylindrical mooncrete tube. Humans apparently going about their daily errands stopped and stared and some of them even screamed.
“It’s all right,” Crater said. “It can’t hurt you.”
Crescent raised her tied hands. “I will kill you and then eat you!”
Crater shushed her. “Kindly stop scaring everyone.”
“It amuses me,” she said.
A fat man in a khaki uniform arrived. There was a brass star pinned to his tunic. “What’s this, Crater?” he demanded. “A monster, but what kind?”
“She’s a crowhopper, Sheriff, and my prisoner.”
“Crowhoppers are trained killers,” the sheriff said.
“She knows that,” Crater replied.
The sheriff pushed his face close to Crescent, his breath blooming with alcohol. She backed away, wrinkling her nose.
“If this thing is a female, it is without a doubt the ugliest female of any race, creed, or nationality I have ever seen. Deputy Zageev, take it into custody.”
“Don’t touch her, Deputy,” Crater growled. “She’s my prisoner.”
Crescent was surprised the humans were fighting over her. She had often wondered how humans interacted. She studied their faces, trying to understand what their expressions meant.
“I am the sheriff of Moontown,” the sheriff said, “and you are a part-time soldier. I have the authority to keep order in these tubes and arrest anyone I wish, including you. Deputy, I told you to take this thing into custody.”
The deputy drew what Crescent recognized was a nine millimeter moon-standard pistol. “Do what I tell you,” he said to her and waved the pistol down the tube. “One wrong move and I’ll put a bullet in your ugly head!”
Crescent studied the sweating deputy and determined he was afraid. “I am not going with you,” she said. “Shoot me and I will do my best to bleed in copious fashion, which I imagine you will have to clean up.” She raised her heavy eyebrows. “Well? I’m waiting.”